You’re on a One-Way Trip to Funky Town, and Connor is your Driver.
Man-alive! I can’t take the singing anymore! Connor is boring a hole in my brain with the incessant singing. Mammam was right all along-- God has given me a child just like myself. Of course, when she said it, it was usually when I was doing something wrong, like my infamous “decorating” of the front porch by drawing all over the new whitewash or my afternoons of feeding food to my invisible people, who never ate anything and left Mammam with spoiled lunch meat and melted ice cream. So she would warn me that someday I’d be a Mommy and get a kid just like myself. And here he is.
I really do enjoy Connor TREMENDOUSLY. And I love to hear his voice; he really is a talented vocalist. It’s just that after FIVE HOURS of “It’s the Fire of Love” (his latest favorite), I get weary, you know? He’s like this warped musical televangelist. He’s on fire for God, and he’s gonna sing about Him until you’re either on fire for Him too or have LIT yourself on fire to get away from the repetitive singing. Sometimes he gives full-scale concerts. Katie bought him some kind of cup that blinks and flashes five different colored lights while you’re drinking, so he takes the cup into the dark hallway by the downstairs bathroom and uses it as a stage effect and then sings the same song for forty-five minutes. It’s maddening. As if to prove my point—Connor is supposed to be napping. He doesn’t realize I’m right at the top of the stairs in the computer room. He’s in the foyer right this minute screaming, “It’s the Fire of Love, and it’s raining down from above!” Now he’s pounding out a drum solo.
Ror and Riley-Katie had their pediatrician check-ups last night. Ror is in the 90th percentile for his weight! The doctor was SHOCKED. I asked if we need to put him on a special diet, but she said he didn’t appear to be heavy at all. So she checked his muscle mass and found that this kid is PURE muscle. My uncle and Chris have been saying that since he’s been born, with their manly pride lighting up their faces—“Look at that kid! He’s all muscle! He’s ripped!” “I know! He’ll be a linebacker! Look at those abs!” So now they have medical proof to give merit to their proud claims. Riley-Kate, on the other hand… well, she’s small. We already knew that. Okay, she’s in the 3rd percentile. I was a little shocked about that. I knew she was small, but I didn’t know she was THAT small. But the doctor is not worried because I was always very small, and Mom Elio is very petite. So Riley-Kate comes by it honestly. As for why I’m also the mother of muscle-man, the world may never know.
During the visit, the nurse had to prick their fingers to test for lead and sugar levels. As soon as she told me this, I started sweating. I considered declining the test. I just knew that needles were not going to go over well; our kids don’t get vaccinations, so they don’t even have any experience with this kind of thing. Ror went first. The nurse stuck him while Chris held him. He didn’t even flinch; he just made a sort of stoic face that said, “It would be SO beneath me to cry about this.” Then he demanded his circus band-aid. Chris, trying to let Ror know he was proud of him, said, “Rory, you’re such a big strong boy! You did a great job! Let me see your muscle! Ooooh, it’s a big muscle!” Ror, recognizing that Chris had been the one to hold him during the ordeal, replied, “Yeah, and I’m gonna punch you after this.” Riley-Kate, seeing Ror’s nonchalant reaction, had no idea what was coming and seemed to almost not notice the needle prick because she was so preoccupied with wanting a circus band-aid for herself. It was the most delayed reaction to pain I’ve ever seen. They pricked her, put the band-aid on, she admired it and let us put her coat on. We left the room and were standing at the exit to the office when she looked at her finger, looked back toward the nurse and screamed, “HEY! HEYYYY! OOOWWWW! You hurted me!”
Reagan slept last night from 10pm to 6:30 am, nursed for fifteen minutes and then slept till 10am. Glory Hallelujah! She’s been a good sleeper from the start, but this was a BIG leap—she usually increases the length of her nighttime sleep by a few minutes each night—suddenly it’s by two hours! I shouldn’t be so cocky; tonight God will surely smite me for my boastfulness and she’ll sleep for like seven minutes and then scream for the rest of the night. So officially, I’m cautiously optimistic. Off the record, I’m dancing around singing Betcha By Golly Wow. It’s just what I sing when I’m excited.
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